Free Tuvalu by Andrew O'Connor Page B

methodical circles.
    â€˜There’s definitely money in sushi,’ Harry said.
    Suddenly I wanted to be left alone. There was something unsettling about his constant talk of money. I thought about retracting the impulsive offer, but could not. I stood up. ‘Let me get the bill,’ I said, trying to soften the effect of such an unexpected departure.
    â€˜You’re going?’
    â€˜I have to, sorry. I forgot something.’
    â€˜Well, I might stay on a while,’ he said, remaining seated. ‘I’ll get the bill.’
    â€˜You’re sure?’ I asked.
    â€˜Absolutely.’
    We shook hands.
    I wandered back towards the hostel, stopping at a stand to buy skewered chicken so I would not have to venture out a second time for food. The enormous, grinning man inside thought he knew me, presumably having mistaken me for some other, significantly more social foreigner. Waving off smoke from the grill he asked after my daughter in broken but confident English.
    â€˜She’s well,’ I said, as it began to rain.
    He gave me a free skewer, fresh off the grill.
    â€˜For the daughter,’ he said.
    Walking on, the pavement steadily darkening, sauce spilt from the skewer onto my shirt and I swore, trying to wipe it off before it seeped through the material. All the way back, people crossed the street at the sight of my enraged face, and my mood was in no way improved by the arrival of a letter from home.
    My father never embraced the internet or e-mail. His neat, handwritten letters always arrived in the same bland envelopes with a pretentious wax seal that read ‘Charles and Diane Tuttle’. My father believed in those wax seals almost as firmly as he believed in God. He could not post even a card without first putting it in an envelope, stamping it with the seal and protecting it against all evil.
    Every letter was more or less the same. Penned in his firm but cursive hand, they opened with a sort of stilted disclaimer. Something like: ‘Please do not take the following as indication I have rejected your perspective outright. I have not. However—’
    After this opening he was invariably limited to a single page. One A4 sheet onto which he crammed lectures on God, the church, marriage, family and the exact state of my beleaguered soul. Souls fascinated my father. Somehow—and it really did puzzle me how—he melded them into his assessment of all things. Shortly after I fled to Japan, he wrote:
    Japan is a well-developed nation boasting an admirable standard of living, but its origins cannot be ignored. Save for its small Christian (non-Catholic) population, it is, at heart, a heathen country. It will do little to steel your soul and much to coax it awry.
    Needless to say I never replied to such musings. And since he had little space for day-to-day news, we had fallen out of touch.
    I read the letter lying on my bed listening to the tick of my plastic wall-clock. I always opened my father’s letters beneath this clock. That way, afterwards, I could follow its steady tick until my fury abated (sometimes I even managed to put my worries so far out of mind I fell asleep to the sound). Around me the hostel room was neat and smelt clean. In one corner there was a broom and dustpan, into which I had swept a large pile of hair, dust and grit. The wax seal crumbled.
    Dear Noah,
Your mother is presently missing. This is the only way I have to contact you. Please ring. Please come home immediately.
    Sincerely,
Your father
    I sat up. I considered for a moment, distractedly, the likelihood of my mother having been abducted. Stranger things had happened in the world. Of this much I was certain. But I could not believe anyone would want to abduct my mother. The letter made no sense. I kicked over the dustpan, outraged at the thought of returning home. Then, worried and wanting news, I rang my father. His voice, when the call finally connected, sounded familiar, despite my